


EPIPHANY

by Archangelsings



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: BeverlyHills!Ian, Bi-Sexual!Mickey, California (AU), First Kiss, Gay?!Ian, Glasses!Ian, Hipster!Ian, I think they're kinda OOC, Idon'tknowhatthefuckIanIs!Ian, M/M, No sex rated "M" for language, One-Shot, but kinda not?, mild kinda sorta indirect gay bashing in a way, promiscuous!Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:43:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangelsings/pseuds/Archangelsings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey hates to be a walking cliché but—looking at Ian? It feels like the stars and the moon and the fucking sun have all aligned. Boom! Bam! Eureka! I have found the meaning of freakin’ life dipshits! Epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	EPIPHANY

**Author's Note:**

> Ello all soooo yeah I know they're PROBABLY REALLY OOC, but.... i kinda thought it would be fun to do a semi-cutesie like.... Bi!Mickey fic? Soooo I did. It's rated M for language sooo yeah. 
> 
> Warning: Language, mild kinda like homophobic? language (kinda sorta indirectly)

**Epiphany**

 

 **Mickey can’t pinpoint when it happened.** It was just one of those days. That moment. _The moment_.  You know, like in those dumb rom-com movies chicks get all weepy eyed over, where the boy gets the girl and the best friend becomes the lover and everything is just fine and fucking dandy. 

It’s that stupid fucking moment when you look into your best friend’s eyes and it’s like…everything suddenly just… _clicks_. All the shitty shit and the assholes and dumb stupid pointless pain you deal with on a daily basis just— _Poof!_ —vanishes into thin fucking air and it’s fucking scary as hell. He hates to be a walking cliché but—it feels like the stars and the moon and the fucking sun have all aligned. _Boom! Bam! Eureka! I have found the meaning of freakin’ life dipshits!_ Epiphany.

Mickey can’t pinpoint when it happened. He can’t tell you the time or the place or the day Ian went from being the annoyingly reasonable _next-to-no-fun_ Beverly Hills hipster, to _hot-as-fucking-hell_ , but he did, and _damn_ , Mickey has _no_ idea how to deal with it. He groans.

Well he knows. He knows what he’d _usually_ do under these circumstances. But he also knows that what he’d _usually_ do? That doesn’t— _can’t_ —apply to Ian. There is no way he's just going to hit it and quit it. Not with him. Not with the only true friend he has. Even he has standards.

 Still this crush (because there's no way it was anything more) is a right pain in the ass to deal with. Mickey Milkovich doesn’t do _crushes_. Mickey Milkovich—he fucks, no strings attached. Nothing more, nothing less. He sighs and leans back against the graffiti smattered wall, kicking an empty coke bottle with the side of his boot.

“Fuck it,” he grumbles, lips pulled into a petulant frown, and starts walking out the alley. It smells like piss anyway.

He walks down the cold L.A streets, his pasty skin glowing a sickly orange under the flickering streetlamps. He's short. Only 5"7. And clad in black. Because he knows that makes him look like fucking bad-ass. And intimidating. Otherworldly. Like a Russian vampire or some shit, with his ivory skin and jet black hair. 

The only part of him with any color are his eyes, and they shone a fierce electrifying blue.  Steely. Angry. And determined. He walks with a gait that says _Piss off. If you don’t I’ll do it for you._ And people did. They do. Because if you looked like you owned the shit. You owned it all. 

Mickey walks past the homeless people with their trashcan bonfires and reaches into his back pocket, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. The smoke burns familiarly in his lungs. He lets out a smoke ring and turns onto his street. 

He can hear his home before he sees it. Can hear the loud raunchy voice of Mandy through paper-thin walls, and the low even tones of his brothers. But when he does finally see his home, the run-down house with peeling paint and a leaky roof, he stops—eyes caught on what doesn’t belong.

Ian.

He'll always stand out. There's no way around it, he screams _rich_ from every pore of his being. His shoes, his hair, his pants, the watch around his wrist, the glasses on his face. He’s toned it down, ‘cause Mickey had asked (more like threatened) him to, and was currently dressed simply in a sweater and jeans, but still, you just know he's not from around here. He's too clean. Too healthy.

He has none of the signs of a hard life. His skin glows, his cheeks aren’t sunken in; you can’t feel his ribs through his shirt. The worst thing he has are a perpetual set of rings under his eyes. Late night essays and too much caffeine. That and a pretentious attitude that gets the snot beat out of Mickey more often than not. The little shit needed to learn how to tame that privileged mouth of his. But still, if _only_ those were Mickey’s problems. He’d think he was in the promised land.

“The fuck you doing here?” Mickey grunts out when he reaches the landing, stubbing out his cigarette on the rail.

Ian is leaning against the wall, head tilted slightly to the left, with an air of ease that pisses the hell out of Mickey. He doesn’t get how Ian can be so comfortable. Mickey knows that if he ever went to Ian’s house he’d flip his fucking shit, afraid to even breath the same air as him. Afraid his streety aura would break some priceless vase or some shit.

 But here he is in an outfit that probably costs as much as Mickey’s home is worth and looking like he owns the place. Which he doesn't. Ian merely raises an eyebrow in response. The window casts shadows over the sharp angles of his face.

He should punch him. He really, really should punch him—wipe that silly smug expression off that overly attractive tan mug, but he can’t, he won’t. _God he’s so screwed._ Mickey sighs and runs his hands through his hair, making to enter the house. “God, fuck—just—Are you coming in or what?”

Ian shifts his gaze to Mickey, nice and slow, like he's got all the time in the world. “You don’t want to do that.” He drawls.

Mickey stops and looks at him. Ian is still standing where he was, leg bent at the knee and looking at him with this unnervingly perceptive hazel stare, making his front porch look like a freaking photoshoot for Armani, but there’s something else there now too. A hint of a smirk, playing at the corner of his lips. His pink lips. His full lips. His really fucking kissable li—

Mickey shakes his head. “Why the fuck not?” His voice cracks on the uptake and his answer is more biting than he intended, but he swears Ian knows what he’s doing to him ninety-eight percent of the time.

His smirk widens and he looks like the cat’s got the cheese or however the fuck that saying goes. “Thea’s in there.”

Mickey’s eyes widen. _Thea_. “Shit.” And damn Ian looks smug as fuck. “Thea I fucked last weekend Thea?”

Ian nods.

“One part angel two parts batshit crazy demon from hell Thea?”

He nods again.

“Thea who doesn—“

“Yes, to all of the above,” Ian cuts him off arbitrarily, and inspects his nails looking like a friggin' Gucci model, “looks like she really likes you.” He snorts derisively, shaking his head. “Couldn’t possibly tell you why though.”

Mickey narrows his eyes and moves to stand beside him. “You’re a smug sonovabitch you know that right?”

Ian just shrugs and pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. Leveling him with a look that says it all. _Like I give a flying fuck_.

“Pretentious little shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and lighting another cigarette. He hands it over to Ian who takes it after a moment. Takes a hit. Coughs. Passes it back. “Back-alley trash.”

“Ha," he laughs, the sound short and loud. A quick burst like he hadn't seen it coming. "Finally speaking my language,” Mickey inhales again, looking up at the sky. “I’m totally corruptin' ya.”

“I prefer to call it the clinical examination of a less fortunate’s life through means of total submersion. Sounds more _academic_.”

"You and that fuckin' school," Mickey rolls his eyes. “Same shit then?”

“Same shit.”

The two boys lapse back into silence passing the cigarette back and forth until it’s nothing but a glowing ember singing their fingertips.

“What are you going to do?” Ian asks finally, “about Thea?”

“Ah,” he scratches his head, throwing the cigarette on the ground and stomping on it. “I’ll figure somethin’ out. Not my first case of clingy bitches.”

“First this persistent though,” Ian notes.

“Mmm.”

Ian peaks through a hole in the shutters. “She coming.”

Mickey sighs. “Damn paper-thin walls, must’ve heard us or something.”

“Probably,” he glances over at Mickey, the light coming from the window shining the same warm orange as his hair, “better think fast,” he leans back up, aloof expression back in place and pointedly looks away from him. _Clean this up yourself._ The pose says. Mickey officially hates him.

“God fuckin’ damm—“

“Mickey?”

Mickey turns, plastering on the fakest smile of his life. “Thea…good to see ya.” Ian snorts and Mickey elbows him in the stomach.

“You haven’t called me back, I left you like twenty messages, where have you been?” Her eyes are a rich brown and doe-eyed. _Fucking angel._

Mickey shrugs. “Been busy.”

Her expression darkens. “With what?” _One part devil._

“Just… shit.”

She crosses her arms. “So busy you couldn’t even leave _one_ fuckin' message?” _Crazy._

Mickey clears his throat. From the corner of his eye he can see Ian lips twitching. Bastard. Traitor. He thinks this is funny. “Yeah.”

“Fucking liar. Who is it?”

“What?”

“Who’re you fucking now?”

“Uhm—“

“Don’t ‘uhm’ me, I know it’s gotta be someone you fucking man-whore. Who is she? You can tell me that much you insensitive dick.”

 _She’s going to eat me alive_. “Uh…would you believe Elaine?”

“No.”

“Rusty.”

“She’s with Dan.”

“Uh Sam—“

“Enough bullshit Milkovich, tell me who the fuck it is before I get my brothers to castrate you. I know you get around. It's a wonder you don't have Chlymidia or some shit by now," she waves a hand across her face, 

"God. Gross.”

Mickey holds up his hands. “Alright, alright, it’s uh— it's fuckin' uhm--“

Ian clears his throat. “Me.”

“You?” Thea raises an eyebrow.

Mickey coughs, _the fuck?_

“You’re gay?”

“I’m gay?" He's going to kill him.

“You’re bi, technically.” Ian offers, looking as collected as ever. _The fucker._

Thea shakes her head. “I don’t believe it.”

Mickey licks his lips. Ian better know what the hell he's doing. “Well you better, ‘cause it’s fuckin’ true.”

“Prove it,” she smirks, “kiss him.”

“Fine—what?!”

“Kiss him. Now. You two've had sex already, what’s a little kiss between fuck-buddies huh?” Thea’s eyes glint dangerously. _Two parts devil._ He mentioned that right? He knows he did.

Mickey looks at Thea, then at Ian, then back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You okay with this shit firecrotch?” he finally asks

Ian shrugs. 

"Ya sure you're sure?"

"Get on with it yeah?"

"Fine," Mickey mumbles grabbing Ian by the sweater, and tilting his chin up. “Shit. God. Ugh, just—oh fuck it.” He smashes their lips together. Holds it. Breaths through his nose. Moves back. He turns to Thea. Not at all how he imagined his first kiss with Ian being.

“Happy now?”

“Not really. You seemed awfully tense.”

“I’m not into fucking PDA.” Mickey growls, "deal with it."

"Okay, okay snugglepups, don't get your panties is a twist," Thea turns to Ian, humming to herself. “Nigel’s got a scar on the right side of his ass right?”

“Hey wait—“

“No, left.” Ian says. Cool as a Cucumber. _Fucking Ian._

Thea quirks a brow. “Silly me, I forgot.” She pauses, drumming her fingers against her hip. “What’s his favorite song?”

“Uhm E, you don’t gotta answer that--” Mickey starts.

“ _I Wish_ , by Cher Llyod. And if you’re going to ask about another…oddity of his, Mickey’s got a third nipple.” Ian says without batting an eyelash.

“Fuck.” Mickey groans. _Kill me now_. "I told ya it was a mole."

Thea smirks. “Fine," she says, "I’ll believe you, mainly because Milkovich over here looks so damn uncomfortable," she shrugs, "Besides I’ve got what I wanted,” She throws her multi-hued hair over her shoulder, “bye now boys,” she walks down the few rickety steps to the street, and stops, turning like she'd forgotten something, "Oh and boys, remember," she smiles, "cross me again and I’ll make sure everyone eastside knows you're a dirty little closet queen.” She looks pointedly at Ian. A thinly veiled threat.

Mickey narrows his eyes. “Bitch.”

“Fag.” She saunters down into the darkness. Mickey slumps to the floor. “God,” his head bangs against the wall, “I need a joint,” he mumbles, "really fuckin' bad." He looks up at Ian. “How’d you know all that shit about me anyway?”

Ian looks down, considering his answer, a somewhat distant look crossing his face. “Reckon it’s cause I pay attention.”

“Bullshit.”

Ian sighs. “I may find you moderately attractive as well.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Only moderately? Seriously man? Dude I need something more than that after this Thea shit.”

“I’m not going to blow up your ego anymore than it already is,” he deadpans.

Mickey chuckles lightly to himself. “Too late for that.” He sighs, his head slumping between his knees. “Ey, firecrotch, thanks.”

Ian shrugs. “No problem.”

“And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty damn hot yourself.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, the smug little shit he is, "I know," and licks his lips. “Want to make-out for real then?” He asks.

But Mickey loves him for it.

Mickey grins. “Fuck yeah.”

And they do. And yeah it's like the sun and stars and the fucking moon all align.

 _Boom! Bam! Eureka! I have found the meaning of freakin’ life dipshits!_ Epiphany.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a note, comment whatev. Lemmee know what you think yeah :o  
> First Gallavich fic.  
> I fucking adore Ian.


End file.
